The Memory Tree

by Tess Evans

  ‘This will be home for the next twelve months,’ the sergeant told them. ‘You’ve done the training but you fuckers ain’t seen nothing yet.’

  The three young men put their bags down uncertainly.

  ‘Who do you think’s in the other bunk?’ Monty asked.

  ‘Me, boys. Give us some fuckin’ room, will ya?’

  A large pale face topped with white-blond hair preceded a wrestler’s body into the small space. A huge paw was extended. ‘Steve Kowolski. Mates call me the Snowman.’ He flung his gear onto one of the stretchers. ‘Wha-cher waitin’ for? A written invitation? Boozer’s open.’

  They were in high spirits when they left the boozer that night, but in an instant, were suddenly and awfully sober. What were those lights? There. Through the trees. Enemy torches? Fireflies, they were told. The sound of mortars. Enemy fire? Ours, the laconic assessment. Zav wished fervently that he could be so casual in the heavy threat of night.

  They went out on patrol, through rubber plantations, rice paddies. Took part in village searches. They seldom engaged with the enemy and it all seemed like an elaborate game. One day, when Zav was on patrol, they came across a young woman, sitting by the road, arms wrapped around her knees. She was rocking hypnotically but jumped to her feet when she saw the patrol approach and ran forward, hands in the air. ‘Úc dai loi,’ she called, pointing to the long grass where she’d been sitting. ‘Úc dai loi. Help.’

  Zav approached cautiously, as he’d been told. The others covered him, their rifles at the ready. An old woman—who knows how old?—lay on the ground. She had a grey plait and her finely wrinkled face was contorted with pain. Each rasping breath clearly depleted her already fading strength. The younger woman looked up at Zav and he saw she could have been no more than twelve or thirteen. The granddaughter, perhaps.

  ‘You help?’

  Zav wasn’t a medic, but he knelt and bent over the old woman, lightly touching her hand. Was she wounded? Was she ill? He recoiled as a gob of spit hit his face. The old woman’s eyes were dark with venom. She croaked a few words to the girl at her side.

  ‘She no want help from you.’ Tears streaked the granddaughter’s grubby face. ‘She die. No help.’ And she sank to the ground again, rocking her body in silent grief.

  As the weeks passed, Zav came to dread looking into the eyes of the villagers. Some were friendly, some openly hostile, but most were cautious. In a war, who can you trust? The children were more open. ‘Úc dai loi,’ they would say, capering about as the Australians handed them sweets. ‘Úc dai loi number one.’ Sometimes Zav would pause to watch them play, marvelling at their resilience, fearing for their safety.

  Christmas saw the boozer decorated with streamers and tinsel and the Snowman, dressed in shorts and a red hat and with cotton wool he’d lifted from the medics, handed out extra rations of beer and some ice-cream he had somehow appropriated from the Americans. Channel 15 had come a few days earlier and they all made messages for their loved ones.

  Hi, Mum, Dad. I’m okay. Happy Christmas.

  G’day Chooka. Have a beer for us, will ya.

  Miss you darlin’. What about a letter?

  Hope Santa left you lots of good stuff, little matey.

  Back home the family watched as a grainy image of Zav filled the screen. My father’s message, like the others was awkward. None of them were used to being on television.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said. ‘Miss you all. Especially you, Kate.’ There was no special message for me. He could have blown me a kiss. It’s not so much to ask. One more thing happened in nineteen sixty-seven. Not two weeks before Christmas, Mrs Mac left.

  Can you imagine life in that house without the kind, steady presence of Mrs Mac? Sealie was outraged and wrote to Zav:

  Dad’s gone too far this time. How could he send her away?

  I truly wonder if he’s not completely mad. I mean that seriously.

  This is too much.

  Zav, sweating in the tropical heat, feared not only the enemy, but the deadly scorpions and the spiders as big as dinner plates. He missed his family dreadfully, but the centre had moved from his former home, to a small flat in Carlton. He could only endure so much fear. He pushed the matter of Hal and Mrs Mac to the back of his mind after writing to Sealie:

  He’ll come round. Tell Mrs Mac to be patient. I’ll be home on leave in a couple of months and I’ll sort it out then if it isn’t already sorted. Kiss Grace for me.

  After so many years, Mrs Mac looked on the Rodriguez house as her home. The family were her family, and Hal broke her heart. It started simply enough. Hal forgot to leave out his washing. He had done this before, of course, but Mrs Mac had Christmas shopping to do and needed to keep to her schedule. For the first time in all those years, washing basket under her arm, she used her spare key to enter the locked room. She looked at the tattered ballet poster on the wall and sighed as she replaced the full basket with the empty one. She moved closer and peered at the poster. Was Mrs R actually among those white swans gazing out at her with black-rimmed eyes? She lifted her glasses and squinted at the dancing figures. Come to think of it, the third one from the end might . . .

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Hal was looking at her with thunderous eyes. He stood in the doorway, fists clenched, taking in the poster, the laundry basket, the frightened woman. One step. Two. He was closer now, and his voice, suddenly softer, was all the more threatening. ‘You don’t have to tell me. I know. Nothing is hidden from me. I always know in the end.’ He pointed an accusing finger. ‘You’re here to steal Paulina’s soul,’ he said. ‘Who told you her soul is in the poster? Who?’

  Mrs Mac froze. ‘Mr R—’

  ‘Don’t you Mr R me.’ His voice came thick and knotted from his throat. ‘I’ve always felt there was a traitor close to home. But you! I trusted you, and you’ve been plotting against me.’ Pain registered on his face and contorted his whole body, right down to the clenched fists. He backed up to the bedside table and felt around with desperate fingers. ‘Go! Leave Paulina’s soul in peace,’ he shouted, flourishing the Bible like a weapon.

  Mrs Mac ran from the room, the washing basket still under her arm. She tripped on the mat sending shirts, singlets, socks flying in mad disarray all over the floor. She fled down the stairs and out into the garden where the magnolia spread its leafy arms. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, help me. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, help me.’ She clung to the unyielding tree trunk, sounding like a madwoman herself.

  It was mid-afternoon and the air was warm and still. She became aware of the familiar smell of cut grass. And the English lavender. Each year, she would collect all its sweetness to make her much-admired lavender bags for the church fête. And the rose petals too, for potpourri. She knelt before a lavender bush and crumbled the flowers between her fingers, inhaling deeply. The lavender calmed her. Suddenly, she was immeasurably weary. The fear still pulsed, but her dominant emotion was sadness. She couldn’t stay. Mr R had taken against her now too and this was no longer her home. Still wearing her apron, she trudged the two kilometres to her sister’s house.

  Three cheers for our own Mrs Mac

  Who keeps all the household on track

  A genius with cooking

  And also good-looking

  There’s nothing this woman does lack.

  ‘Hey, Mrs Mac. What dee-licious treat do you have for us tonight?’ Godown slammed the back door behind him as he boomed his usual greeting. He sniffed. No cooking smells. The kitchen was empty. ‘Hal! Where’s Mrs Mac. Is she sick?’

  Hal appeared in the doorway. His shirt was only half tucked in and he was clutching his Bible to his chest. ‘She’s sicker than you could ever imagine,’ he said. ‘She’s sick beyond repair.’

  Godown stared in disbelief. ‘My God, Hal. Is she in hospital? Why didn’t you ring me?’ The pastor valued his long-standing friendship with Eileen McLennon. Here was a woman he could really respect and now—‘Hal? Where is she?’

  ‘I had to s
end her away. The Lord has exposed her as a daughter of darkness.’ He motioned urgently to the other man. ‘We must pray in every room. This house must be cleansed or we risk Paulina’s soul.’

  Godown looked at Hal in horror. ‘Hal! Mrs Mac is one of the best, most Christian women I’ve ever met.’ He tried to be tactical. ‘The devil must be feedin’ you falsehoods. Father of Lies, Hal. That’s what they call the devil.’ Lord, help me, he prayed. Help me to help this sick man.

  There were hectic patches on Hal’s cheeks and his eyes were dark and febrile. Alarmed but unwilling to disturb him further, Godown went with him from room to room, reciting prayers to cleanse the house. They prayed in the kitchen, the dining room, the living room. They prayed in the laundry, the round room, the attic room. They prayed in all the bedrooms, the study and finally in Hal’s own room. They didn’t pray in the cupboard under the stairs. Godown was curiously grateful for this one small haven. Their prayers were ridding the house of a power for good.

  Godown had never met Alice, but knew her house. He had dropped Mrs Mac off there many times over the years. Eileen McLennon liked to keep one part of her life for herself and Godown had understood. Now, in this crisis, he found himself invited into the neat Californian bungalow by an older, plumper version of his friend.

  ‘Eileen is through there in the front room,’ she said, indicating a door at the head of the passageway. ‘I’ll get some tea, while you two have a chat.’

  Although it was a bright morning, there wasn’t much natural light in the room, and what there was was supplemented by two table lamps. Nevertheless, Godown still had to peer a little to orient himself.

  A figure rose from an armchair. ‘Godown. It’s so good to see you. Thank you for coming.’ Her voice quavered. ‘I never expected Mr R to take against me.’

  Godown put a tentative arm around her shoulder. He meant to say, the ways of the Lord are indeed mysterious. Instead, feeling the frail shoulders under his large hands, he said, ‘He had no right. Why would he take against you, Mrs Mac? You been the best of friends to that family.’

  ‘Eileen,’ she said. ‘My name is Eileen.’

  ‘Mine is Moses.’

  Caught off-guard, they looked at each other as Alice bustled in with the tea and fruitcake. ‘Now,’ said Alice. ‘What’s to be done?’

  Mrs Mac and Godown looked at each other uncomfortably. For some time now, there had been an unspoken acknowledgement that Hal had got beyond needing a tonic and a good holiday. But who was to make a decision? Hal himself was incapable. Zav was in Vietnam, facing God knows what, and Sealie—well, they had always protected Sealie and now she was starting a new career, could they burden her with this? Hal had fallen out with Bob who was the only other person who had been close enough. Now, with Mrs Mac’s eviction, that left only Godown.

  ‘I blame myself,’ the big man mourned. ‘He was more hurt than I understood and there I was preachin’ at him.’

  ‘But it calmed him down for a long time. I know he’s done some strange things, but it did help. He was that depressed before you came.’

  Godown looked at Mrs Mac gratefully. ‘Well, that wasn’t me. I’d like to think it was the Lord’s doin’. I was just a tool in His hands.’

  Alice snorted. ‘Whatever happened in the past, it’s now we have to worry about.’

  They were grateful for the strained light. It’s hard to look someone in the eyes when you are talking about the consequences of insanity. People could be put away in those beautiful Victorian buildings with mad people.

  ‘Can’t do it,’ Godown finally said. ‘Don’t even have the right. I’m not family’ (this admission saddened him more than he could say). ‘It’s really up to Zav and Sealie. I can’t see them putting their father into one of them institutions.’ He pronounced it institooshuns. He had never lost his American drawl.

  ‘What can we do? Sealie will want to know where I am.’ Mrs Mac fretted and picked at her cake. She looked even thinner than usual.

  They sat in silence for a moment and finally Godown spoke. ‘How about we just tell the kids that their father has took against Mrs—Eileen here, but, you know, play down how it happened and what he said. I’ll keep an eye on him for the next little bit and maybe Eileen and me can meet sometimes to discuss things.’

  Mrs Mac was relieved. ‘Good idea,’ she said. ‘We don’t have to do anything right away. He’s turned against people before today. Just because it’s me, we’re making it a big deal. Bigger than it really is.’

  ‘You may be right, but he sounds pretty far gone to me.’ Alice was appalled at the treatment meted out to her sister. ‘The sooner he’s in the loony bin, the better, if you ask me.’

  ‘We didn’t ask you,’ her sister replied. ‘You don’t know him. He was fine until Mrs R died.’

  Godown sensed an argument brewing and tried to change the subject. ‘His wife, Paulina—what was she like?’

  The sisters exchanged glances. ‘She was a beautiful woman—face like the Madonna and so graceful . . .’

  ‘As a person. What was she like as a person?’

  ‘A wonderful wife and mother. She adored them all.’ Mrs Mac hesitated slightly. ‘She had a bit of a temper.’

  ‘Eileen seemed to be the main target,’ said Alice. ‘Mrs R could be pretty high-handed.’ If she hadn’t been a lady, Alice would have said up-herself.

  ‘High-handed?’

  ‘Well, most other women called their housekeepers by their first name, but when Eileen started with her she insisted on being called “Mrs Rodriguez” and calling Eil “Mrs McLennon”. Said that way everyone knew where they stood.’

  ‘What about Hal?’

  ‘Well, he said, “Call me Hal,” but Mrs R wouldn’t have a bar of it.’

  Mrs Mac interrupted her sister, feeling like a traitor. ‘After a while it became Mrs Mac and Mrs R. Much more friendly. She just had to get to know me.’

  Godown had heard nothing but good of Paulina. Now it seemed that she was a snob. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. At least it made her more human.

  As he walked back to the house, Godown prayed for guidance. He had just taken on a task of daunting responsibility. He needed a plan; a way of proceeding that would keep Hal subdued but not depressed. Let me find the right path, Lord. Hal is a good man. Let this chalice pass from him.

  The twins’ faces were grave when he told them about Mrs Mac. ‘We can only pray for him,’ Chloe said. ‘We know you’ll stand by him, Pastor.’

  Ariadne had to lean forward to hear his reply. ‘You can be sure of that, dear friends,’ he promised. ‘You can be real sure of that.’

  14

  HAL’S INCREASING ISOLATION FED HIS paranoia and he clung to Godown as though he were drowning. He couldn’t bear to be alone for a minute. Sometimes, his head was filled with noise; shrill, inhuman screams that pierced his very marrow; mocking voices that snickered and sniggered as he attempted the most ordinary of things. Look at him, they sneered. He can’t even shave without cutting himself. Cut deeper, other voices whispered. Cut deeper. Wordless chittering and chattering. Witch cackles. Radio static. Angel-song. Gunfire from distant Phuoc Tuy. A cacophony pushing and jostling inside his ever-expanding skull. He felt the bony plates strain and crack under the pressure. He could feel little hairline fractures picking their way delicately through the bone, tracing a fine, dark web like lines on a map. There was colour, too, for some of the noises. Angel-song, that one soothing sound, was blue and rippling like the summer sea. Loud noises flickered red and orange. Sniggers were purple. A blue–purple, unlike the witch-cackles, which were puce. He had to identify the colours and match them with their sounds, but they slipped away as soon as he attempted to grasp them. He tried writing them down. Blue angel-song. Red for shouting. Puce witch-cackles . . . He never got further than that, and fretted that he was being punished for failing to grasp their meaning. He’d throw down his pen and put his hands over his ears but the noises went on. Braying, roaring, panting.
Sobbing, raging, whining. More colours—green, brown, silver and inky grey.

  Why are you torturing me? What do you want? Hal’s face became haggard. He felt little electric shocks under his feet and on the palms of his hands.

  Sometimes, through the bewilderment of sounds, the Voice, smooth, like black marble, warning Hal of dire events, of secret enemies he could neither see nor hear. This Voice, this entity, with its clear enunciation, its rounded vowels, was oddly reassuring. Hal clung to that Voice as the inarticulate sounds and swirling colours threatened to send him down a vertiginous chasm where his hold on sanity would be smashed beyond repair.

  Then the silence. The void that became more frightening than the sounds. When the noises were gone, when the Voice was gone, Hal was alone in a huge, unknowable universe. He saw himself crouched in the corner of his mind, a small, cowering figure. He washed his hands over and over, convinced they were covered in shit. They became so raw that he took to wearing cotton gardening gloves.

  Godown watched him in dismay but though Hal was depressed, twitchy, irritable and obsessive, his behaviour was not markedly more extreme than in other depressive episodes. Hal’s paranoia made him cunning and the Voice demanded both control and secrecy.

  If he had told someone about the voices, who knows? Maybe his family and friends might have finally faced the truth. ‘If’ is such a little word but it punches way above its weight.

  Despite his internal terrors, Hal was still reachable, and Godown tried to get him to focus on reality. There were long periods, days, sometimes, when the tortured look left Hal’s face and they discussed the weather, the progress of the war, the garden, Sealie’s next day off. They never mentioned Mrs Mac. Godown quietly packed her belongings and took them to Alice’s. Bob had assisted her to claim the generous annuity Hal had provided for her retirement. She was nearly fifty now and couldn’t bring herself to start again.

  ‘Alice has asked me to live with her,’ she said to Godown at the first of their regular meetings in the park. ‘Mr R . . .’ her voice broke. ‘Mr R has provided very well for me. He’s a good man, Moses.’